I couldn’t help myself. I lapped up every second of it even though it meant planting myself in front of the television for ten consecutive hours, breaking only for sustenance. It’s official: I’m hooked. I’m the first to admit that I am addicted, despite having been resistant early on. Now there’s nothing so important to me as finding out who will win the battle to rule the six kingdoms (and two territories) and sit on the Iron Throne. Ser Malcolm or Ser Bill?
I couldn’t help myself. I lapped up every second of it even though it meant planting myself in front of the television for ten consecutive hours, breaking only for sustenance. It’s official: I’m hooked. I’m the first to admit that I am addicted, despite having been resistant early on. Now there’s nothing so important to me as finding out who will win the battle to rule the six kingdoms (and two territories) and sit on the Iron Throne. Ser Malcolm or Ser Bill?
Comparing politics and Game of Thrones is probably a cheap shot. One involves treachery, bloodlust and depravity. The other is a television show. But watching election night coverage is an odd tradition in this country that centres around fluctuating tallies and, more than anything else, one man: Antony Green. Frankly, he is the Elvis Presley of Psephologists; the man to whom an expectant nation turns in times of need. To soothe us. To give us answers and to tell us that we didn’t waste our time queuing up for an hour at the local primary school. Come Election Day, there are plenty of talking heads who’ll espouse all manner of rubbish for hours. Antony Green, however, controls a super-computer that predicts the future.
Over the years, my feelings about the electoral process have changed dramatically. Once, I treated volunteers thrusting their ‘how to vote’ cards in my direction as if I was Marlene Dietrich and they were crazed autograph hunters. Sunglasses planted firmly on my nose and a scarf wrapped around my head to remain incognito, I’d sweep past with my entourage refusing to accept anything shoved in my direction. I felt this was preferable to accepting papers from just one of them, thereby inadvertently undermining the whole ‘secret ballot’ process, invalidating the entire election and destroying the space time continuum forever (possibly).
Long ago, I worked at a number of elections. This was back in the pre-sausage sizzle era, when voting still carried the stigma of some kind of community based order. These were marathon days that I attended with an elaborate packed lunch and during which I was paired with someone who was (hopefully) more experienced. There was no thrill greater than being able to locate someone’s name on the electoral roll in quick time.
I spent the 2004 election in Queensland, watching as it became clear that the nation had rejected the idea of installing a Prime Minister who shakes hands like a shaved gorilla. That was the year I had the honour of casting an absentee ballot. It’s like being a VIP or the extra short queue at the airport check-in counter reserved only for those lucky enough to be a member of a requisite ‘club’. Absentee voting is the luxury electoral experience. I often wonder why I bother to vote in my own electorate at all, given that a short drive would guarantee special treatment.
In 2007, I spent election night at my youngest brother’s wedding. (In the interests of accuracy, I should make it clear that it wasn’t just his wedding. It was also his wife’s wedding. There are very few weddings that involve just one person.) Even in the midst of a reception, results trickled in like news from a distant war zone. The result was clear when, as we were heading home, we saw three young men wearing ‘Kevin ‘07’ t-shirts fall out of a taxi. They looked like the happiest people on earth. I can only imagine how they looked a short three years later. What became of the t-shirts is anyone’s guess.
In 2010 and 2013, we voted at different schools, despite not having moved. On the first occasion, the school just down the road hosted and, in a stroke of genius, decided to combine the election with their school fete. Fate of the nation, fete of the school; all served with onions and mustard. Waiting to cast your ballot, you were surrounded by stalls of every kind. By the time you reached the booth proper, you had to balance homemade organic banana bread and a jar of lime marmalade along with your senate paper. It was confusing, too. Although I can’t be sure; if it so happens that I accidentally shoved my bratwurst into the House of Representatives box, please forgive me.
Next time, the school just down the road was quiet. Perhaps the fete had been too much of a success and the sheer scale of their entrepreneurism had got up the noses of some of the less-well known political parties who frown on that kind of thing. All I know is that we had to go to a different school without so much as a sausage sizzle. Just an eight-year-old playing violin. Whether this was intended as a subtle form of political campaigning by invoking the image of Nero playing the fiddle whilst Rome burned it was, doubtless, the subject of a complaint of some kind.
The electoral cycle is much like my first cycle; a Malvern Star that had five gears and was at its best when pointed downhill with gravity is in its favour. But I love Election Day. It’s nothing short of a miracle that millions of people can cast their vote and it’s all done in such an orderly, peaceful manner. And if that’s not something of an achievement, I don’t know what is.